Let It Out Slowly
by scousemuz1k
Summary: A year on from Take a Deep Breath. Tony and Tim, undercover, met a familiar face or two.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I like Zoe... I hope she and Tony'll make a life together. So I wasn't planning to write any more about Aydie, or a sequel to TADB. But this niggled away at me. Takes place a year later, and won't make any sense if you haven't already read that one.**

Let It Out Slowly

"Thought I'd find the both of ya here," Gibbs said, a little stiffly, as he sat down at the kitchen table and took the mug of coffee Aydie presented to him. He still felt a bit awkward around her, although she always welcomed him, and he knew she'd actively encouraged the slow rebuilding of some sort of friendship with Tony. That day that they'd come to the fishing pool to find him, he'd found out later from Tony that she'd been the instigator. Who knew if they'd ever have begun the journey otherwise? But she'd seen him at his worst; his cruellest and then his most depressed, and it rubbed the edges of his pride that he'd let anyone see him like that. His own fault, he reminded himself.

Aydie snorted. "We _should_ both have been here," she said ruefully. "We were looking forward to having you over. Tony's been hauled up to Dahlgren to do some surveillance – apparently his face isn't so well known over there, and they've heard he's _good at undercover work!_ " She grimaced. "I think Marchetti's dropped him in it, it's his op, and of course DiNo would go off to help an old friend." _Yes, he would,_ Gibbs thought. "I'm kind of hoping that he'll be done and home by evening, but you know how these things go. My team was supposed to be the duty one these next three days, and Stan promised he wouldn't call me in unless things were desperate, so I could have some down time with my husband... meh. If you want to make the gods laugh, make plans!"

" _I'm sorry, Mrs D..."_

" _Story of our lives, and not your fault." She ran her fingertip down his 'businessman off duty' clad chest. "Try not to have too much fun sitting in a pole dancing club all afternoon."_

" _Ha. In my youth, horribly misspent, I'd have said dream assignment. Now, I'd sooner eat mushrooms."_

" _I like mushrooms."_

" _I know. You're weird, Mar-tan."_

 _She put her arms round his waist and her head on his shoulder. (She was far too tall to lay it on his chest, which was a bummer, really. And if she were to make him lie down to make it possible, he'd never leave the house today.) "Be careful, DiNo. And don't be gone too long."_

" _It's only observing. Apologise to Gibbs for me? I'd call him to let him know, but he's probably on his way by now, and anyhow, he doesn't know how to answer his phone when he's driving."_

" _Yeah. Go on." She kissed him, and he headed out to his car._

NCISNCISNCIS

The club was out of town, close to the airfield, and on a loop road that went only there and to a few fields. The parking was discreet; it wouldn't do to site a gentlemen's entertainment establishment where the said gentlemen's wives could drive past and notice hubby's car.

The music was loud enough to discourage conversation, the lighting dim enough to discourage looking anywhere except at where the spotlights shone on the two poles and their attendant dancers. One girl was fluffy in white, with downy wings, the angel; the other in red latex with a tail, and tiny horns peeking from dark hair, the antithesis. One of the businessmen in the corner booth, wedding ring clearly visible, leered happily at her; the other, younger man was slid down in his seat, somewhat dishevelled, drunk as a skunk. When the angel dancer managed to catch his eye and give him a provocative smile, he was just about able to return it glassily from behind his specs, then he lost interest.

"Anything?"

The drunk frowned. "You just asked me," he muttered. "And you can see what I'm seeing. Go away." He contrived to make his long scan of the room look like an inebriated attempt to focus, so his glasses could film the whole scene.

"We'll let you know," the leering man said just as softly. "Don't call us, we'll call you." The voice in both their earwigs, Dave Marchetti's, said something rude and fell silent. The two flashed the briefest of grins at each other, and reverted to sleazebag and bored drunk at once.

It was actually a real pleasure to be working together; once again, the friendship was a work in progress, but it _was_ progressing, really well.

It had been a year before Marchetti felt confident enough to name Tim McGee as his SFA, and there'd still been one or two snide remarks, although not from the rest of his own team, until Dave had said that the position had been earned, and if he could let it go so could they, and to butt out.

During that time, Tim had kept Tony posted on what he was doing, and Tony had encouraged it. If he was honest, it was the fact that Tim had had the guts to do what he'd advised and cut himself loose from the toxic environment of MCRT that had impressed the new Supervisory Agent most, oh, that and the solving of the orange folder cold case,) and the re-emergence of the Tim he'd known and liked made him happier than he could say.

He hadn't asked Marchetti to tell tales, but he'd made a point of asking after Tim whenever they ran into each other, and Dave had always been positive; and when Tim had turned up for one of his undercover courses at FLETC, with a huge smile that he'd managed to surprise him, the Italian had gone home to his new wife that evening with a grin like an enormous slice of Ogen melon. Now, if only _Gibbs_ would relax and stop being so guarded; accept that the past was behind them, no point in dwelling on it, maybe _they'd_ get somewhere.

Time wore on; Tony twisted his wedding band under the table, not really liking how he'd been using it to maintain his cover; it meant more to him than that. The dancers were replaced by others, while the waitresses scurried about, easily identified in the dim light by the glittering silver wigs they wore.

"Odd," Tim mused very softly, after about ten minutes of 'drunken' people-watching, "the dancers seem to enjoy what they're doing... the waitresses look as if they hate it."

"Keep watching," Tony agreed.

After another ten minutes Tim had it sussed, as he watched one waitress straightening her skirt and pushing her wig back into place. "If a customer tries to put a hand on a dancer, those very large security guys will have him. The poor waitresses don't get any such protection. Nobody cares if they get groped; they're not bringing the customers in."

Tony nodded again; he was tempted to get up and casually elbow one especial pest in the ribs as he went by, but his cover required that he just sit there and leer. Some of the girls looked vaguely familiar; he wondered if they were illegals, or runaways, the sort of girls he'd encountered as a cop and carried the anger home with him at night because he couldn't help them all. He wondered if it was a look they all ended up with.

However he'd tended to objectify women in the wake of the Wendy disaster, he'd never felt anything but disgust at the using of women as commodities - it brought the anger surging back more the longer he watched, and he had to force it down to concentrate on the job. One girl in particular kept drawing his attention; something about her gait... a case, maybe... he'd remember in the end.

"There," he whispered suddenly. Without reacting, Tim followed the line of the finger Tony had casually extended alongside his drink, and angled his glasses to film the scene.

Their target Petty Officer, looking nothing like her uniform photograph in a flowing blue chiffon dress and black, shiny three inch heels, her hair loose round her shoulders, had emerged from the doorway that led to the offices. She casually kissed the man who followed her out, then he turned and went back inside. They weren't sure yet if he knew she was copying his security tapes, or if she was romancing the poor sap so she could get inside his... office, as Marchetti had said with raised eyebrows. But her rich source of blackmail material was as limitless as the human urge to cheat.

The Petty Officer clearly didn't need to look round; she knew which table she was heading for. She stopped alongside where a youngish man sat, beside a blonde lady whose body language clearly said she didn't want to be there, and made a big show of greeting them as friends; and it was the lady to whom the Petty Officer handed the lipstick that she produced after she'd hunted around in her clutch purse.

The woman said what looked like thank you, and dropped it into her own purse on the table, as the Petty Officer went on her way, by which time, Tony was up and casually walking by. He stopped to look back at the dancers, as the directional mike in his watch picked up the man's satisfied grunt.

"Finally. I'm going to the john, then we're leaving."

" _Nice," Marchetti said in Tony's ear. Now all you have to do –"_ By the time he'd finished talking about dropping the tracker, it had already been done. As the man headed for the rest room, Tony pretended to stumble slightly, and put his hand on the woman's table to steady himself. By the time the blonde had finished preening at the very appreciative look this handsome sleaze was giving her, the tracker, the size and shape of a small bead, had been deftly dropped into her purse, and she was none the wiser.

" – _and follow them to the tech guy, then we'll have the whole gang."_

"Relax, it's fine, Dave. Now can I go home to my wife? I'm not –"

He turned away, to head back to his table, and found himself towering over one of the waitresses, who'd come up close behind him. The girl whose walk he'd seen before. That wasn't all he recognised... she glared up at him from under the silver wig, with a mixture of embarrassment, weariness, defiance and, of all things, resignation. He was a professional; he was damn good at his job. He didn't stiffen, or gasp, or even blink.

" _Hello,_ _Zi..._ "

He heard Marchetti splutter into his earpiece, and in the corner Tim's head jerked up, although he kept his cool enough not to lose the drunk pose. Tony ignored them both.

He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly... very slowly. Never moving out of sleazeball mode, and bending his head down to hers, he whispered seductively, "Undercover?" She nodded coyly, as if he'd made some suggestive remark. "Is your team here?"

"Team? No... I... there is..." She struggled to answer, and the air of desperation around her was tangible, and alarming. She didn't want to be here. Tony didn't hesitate. "Go out the staff door. Marchetti, get her in the surveillance truck and don't let anyone but me in."

" _On it."_

"Go on, go." Ziva looked at him, eyes wide, hesitated, and then did as he said, turning on her heel and fleeing towards the service doors, leaving Tony wondering if that actually just happened.

NCISNCISNCIS

The silver wig lay on the floor in a corner of the truck, looking as if it had been kicked there. Ziva sat hunched on one of the tall chairs, saying nothing. Someone had given her a bottle of water, and she sipped it automatically, darting swift glances around her, as Tony and Tim stepped up into the cabin.

"So... under cover, but no team. Been there. Don't like. Not surprised you didn't." Tony put his head on one side and looked closely at his former team mate. "I read it right, then? You came to me deliberately. You _did_ want out of there."

" _We've got her," Marchetti's voice was matter of fact for all the surprise. "Doesn't look as if anyone's following her. Are_ _ **you**_ _following our marks?"_

" _No..." Tony said, dropping back into his seat beside Tim, who looked as shocked as he felt. "Still got eyes on them – they're heading for the exit. Are you ready to track them?"_

 _Marchetti muttered something about grandmas and egg-sucking._

 _The two inside the club stayed where they were and did their job until the couple were reported to be driving away, then dropped their personas and almost raced out of the door._

Now, he stood looking down at this most unZiva-like Ziva, making a conscious effort to dial back on the defensiveness and anger that was the legacy of the last time he'd seen her.

"Yes, I wanted out, Tony."

He nodded sharply, glad he'd read her right. "Who's your handler? Kort? He knows better than to send someone in without back-up!"

Ziva glared. "I have been working in that disgusting place for eleven days. I was shown a photograph, and told that if the man came in, I was to spike his drink, then call Kort. There was no reason for them to send anyone else in with me. That was what they judged. There was no sign of the man; I am beginning to wonder if he exists."

Tony frowned, and went back to what she had said first. "Spike his drink? What with?"

"I do not know. This." She produced a tiny capsule in a ziplock pouch from her skirt pocket, and handed it to him.

He peered at it in the dim light of the truck, but it bore no identifying marks. Very CIA. He took a deep breath to calm himself down, but then burst out angrily, "Ziva, you should know better than this! What if it's poison? A man dies in a club – or even passes out – and the first person they suspect is the waitress who served his drink! What was Kort going to do when you called? Rush over and protect you? Ziva, you _do_ know better! Why are you going along with this?"

Ziva sat rigidly on the uncomfortable chair, while Tim waited for her to go for Tony's throat, and for a long moment she said nothing. Finally, reluctantly, she admitted, "I did not have a choice."

Oh, how much it cost her to tell the tale she told; to admit she'd had enough, she needed help to get out of the mess she'd made. They could see it, and felt for her, but no-one said anything until she'd finished.

She'd carried out a few assignments well; they'd been pleased. Then she'd begun to feel confident; to do things her way. She couldn't understand why Kort was displeased with that; it had the desired result, did it not? But he'd laid it on the line what would happen if she didn't stick within the parameters set next time. She'd obeyed, until she saw a better way of doing it, and it had resulted in the operation failing, although, she insisted, she could have recovered it if they'd let her.

She'd fallen into the trap - Kort _wanted_ her to be in his power, and since then had been having his pound of meat. He had pointed out that what she had done was illegal, and would jeopardise her citizenship if anyone ever got to know about it. He had assigned her all the worst jobs the agency had, frequently the sort of thing she'd been doing tonight when she had seen Tony and Tim, and realised from their attitude that they were undercover. She had taken care not to give them away, she added virtuously.

Kort had often left her without back-up, in places where her cover made it difficult for her to defend herself, against physical danger or sexual harassment. She'd had a few dangerous moments, and more than a few bruises. When she _had_ achieved something, he'd taken the credit and sent her straight out on her next job.

"I was Mossad. He was wasting me on this rubbish, simply to prove his point, while I could have been doing better things. I _can_ do better! I thought working as a CIA operative would be satisfying; it is simply degrading. Humiliating. And dangerous because I have no back-up or anyone who cares what happens to me. I am _tired_. " Clearly she was, and by the tears she was fighting back, and which Tony didn't think were manufactured, miserable too.

He registered those words ' _was Mossad'_ , and thought there might, finally, be a real change going on. He gave her a long, level look, and she returned it.

 _Now you know how it feels._

 _Yes, I do. Are you happy now?_

 _Do I look happy to you, Ziva?_

At that moment, Marchetti's technical guy handed his boss a head-set. Dave listened for a moment. "Good job, people. After all that effort to track them, would you believe they only went as far as McDonalds to hand over the recordings. They're all under arrest. Our lovely PO was picked up as she drove home – and we've taken the manager in for questioning too. We can go home too – ni-i-ice work."

There were happy remarks all round, although Tony and Tim both kept their eyes on Ziva. What to do next? Marchetti needed to take the truck home, and people were needing their down time, not that Tony thought he was likely to be getting any just yet. Huey, Marchetti's tech spoke again.

"Joel's picked someone up in the parking lot." He turned the camera, and they all saw a familiar face glaring up at it. "He wants to bring him in."

Marchetti looked at Tony and raised his eyebrows. Tony grinned like a shark, and nodded, and a few moments later, nudged by Joel Kelly's gun, a furious Trent Kort stepped up into the truck. When he saw who his reception committee was, his lips twisted in a sneer.

"DiNozzo. McGee. Always the white hats. I want my operative back."

Ziva looked at Tony anxiously, but he wasn't looking at her. He kept up the wide, toothy smile, (maybe it even got a little wider,) and said easily, "Oh, yes... your _operative_. The one you're never close enough to provide back-up for, but obviously close enough to know when she's stepping outside your boundaries. The one you're blackmailing with the word 'illegal', when _everything_ the Company does is illegal." Well, lots of it, anyway. Who wanted to split hairs? He heard Ziva's soft gasp. Clearly she'd been under pressure and stressed, but she ought to have realised that for herself. Well, she knew now.

"You don't know anything about this, DiN-"

"Well, isn't that always your opening line. You'll have to get a bit more original than that, Trent. Hey, I don't _want_ to know anything about how you work, believe me... oh... er, except maybe does your boss, Dreyer –" Kort's one eye widened – "knows how you use the resources at your disposal."

He moved away from Ziva's chair, and noted with pride how Tim moved in to stand where he'd been. "And maybe what's in _this_... enough to get your operative accused of murder when she's no longer useful?" He waved the capsule under the CIA man's nose, and snatched it away as Kort reached for it. When he couldn't get his hands on it, he turned on Ziva, but Tim hitched his jacket back from his gun.

"Why did you give _him_ that? You still haven't learned –"

"She wants out, Kort. She knows now what a bad idea it is to get into bed with the Company. And you're going to _let_ her out." Tony tossed the capsule in its packet up in the air and caught it again way before Kort could try to reach it.

"Be careful, DiNozzo... you have a lot to lose..."

Tony laughed, but it was an unpleasant, scary sound. "Ah. You've been there already. You took a lot away from me once before; and quite honestly, I'll kill you before I'll let you do that again. Mind you, you try to hurt my wife, or me, she'll kill you herself."

"If I don't kill you first," a voice said from the doorway.

For once, Tony was staggered. "Gibbs!"

"I called him," Tim said unapologetically. "You told me he was at your place, remember?"

"I came too," Aydie said, stepping up into the truck behind Gibbs.

"Well," Tony said. "Well." For a while, nobody spoke, then he went on, "You know, that day you blew my car up... to kill an innocent girl... didn't care if an NCIS agent was collateral damage – you know, NCIS hasn't liked you much since then. Neither have I." He tossed the capsule up in the air again, and Kort's eyebrows shot up. "No, I'm not going to force-feed it to you. But you've given me a good idea what might be in it. We'll get it analysed... and if you ever come anywhere near Miss David again, I'll take it straight past SecNav to SecDef."

"You don't want to make an enemy of me," Kort snarled, and again, Tony laughed.

"We've never been friends," he said cheerfully. "That day... that day you tried to blow Jeanne up, killed a poor chauffeur, you remember what happened when you came to NCIS? Shoved me up against an elevator wall?" He was surprised, but hey, not surprised, when Gibbs joined himself and Tim to stand around Ziva. "These three people held guns on you, in my defence. Now it's the four again, three defending a different one of us, but the intent's still there. Oh, and you've got Special Agent Martin-DiNozzo to reckon with now, too."

Aydie strolled over, with the gentlest and most amiable of smiles.

"And the rest of NCIS," Marchetti said, leaning against the only bare bit of wall in the truck's cabin.

"See? Why take on all of us, ruin your career for a bit of personal spite?"

Trent Kort was silent for a moment, then gave a disgusted snort. "You're welcome to her. Don't come to us for any favours." He swept out, and a few seconds later they heard the harsh noise of a car being very badly treated. As the engine sound died away into the distance, they all went through different versions of letting a deep breath out slowly.

"Thanks, guys," Tony said softly. Then to Ziva, "Well, what now?"

"I... I do not know. I am grateful..." She sighed, all the tension leached out of her. "I suppose... I just wish to go home, and think."

"Is your car here?" Gibbs asked.

"No... one of Kort's people brought me. They often did; I think lately it was to make sure I would turn over."

"Up," Tony and Tim said together, and Ziva gave a tiny smile. She hadn't realised how much she'd missed that.

"I'll give you a lift," Gibbs said.

"Thank you, Gibbs."

The former MCRT moved out of the truck together, but Aydie hung back, ostensibly to talk to her old boss, Dave Marchetti. This wasn't her moment.

The former MCRT's boss opened the passenger door of his yellow Gibbsmobile; Ziva lowered herself in, and said thank you again in a small voice, before closing the door firmly.

Gibbs looked at the two younger men. "I'll take her wherever she wants to go," he said quietly. As Tony began to take a warning breath he added, "No, DiNozzo, not my basement. Those days are gone. But... gotta say, it was good working with you two again. Like old times. Will ya tell Aydie I'm sorry to miss her cooking? I'll see ya both soon." He sighed. "Yeah," he said absently, "Just like old times..." He walked round to the driver's door and climbed in, and the Dodge growled away.

"How long ago old times, Tony?" Tim 's voice was wistful. "Seems those times were gone way before the team split up. D'you think Gibbs still needs to let go?"

Tony shook his head. "Well... when you hit bottom, the only way is up. Things are getting better, and there was a time when I thought they never could." He looked across at his wife, as she stood in the doorway of the surveillance truck, grinned, and punched Tim's bicep lightly. "Hey, Aydie hates wasting what she's cooked – d'you want Gibbs' dinner?"

The End


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: OK, it was supposed to be finished, but one or two people asked about what Gibbs would do next – where would Ziva wish to go – I didn't know so I thought about it. So... short second chapter. Postscript if you like.**

Let It Out Slowly

Chapter 2

Tim pushed his plate back with a sigh, and leaned back in his chair. "Oh...that was really good, Aydie. My grandma used to make stew with dumplings, I used to love going to her house. I haven't had them in years – that was great."

Aydie gave him a pleased smile, as he began to get up to take his plate to the dishwasher, but she whisked it away. "Sit. Relax. Well, try, anyway. Coffee cake?"

Tony grinned as she went into the kitchen. "She has this thing about coffee cake..." He thought for a moment. "Wait a minute – _Penny_ made stew and dumplings?"

Now it was Tim's turn to smile. "My other gran. Penny was a disaster in the kitchen. She'd start to prepare a meal, then notice something in the New York Times political section. Two hours later she'd still be phoning round discussing it with her friends, while the salad went limp, or the chicken was carbonised. Penny wasn't made for the mundane, no matter how much the rest of us thought starving us to death wasn't a valid political or philosophical statement. In the end, we fed ourselves. Sarah's a mean cook."

Tony nodded his agreement. "I did a lot of that too; cooks came and went – I think now it was probably in accordance with Senior's ability to pay them; mostly they'd feed me, but if there wasn't one around, I just did it myself. I'd raid the fridge for chilli dip and chocolate ice cream."

"Strewth, you're weird," his wife said, coming back in with three plates of coffee cake balanced on one arm, and the jug with the real stuff in the other hand. "He doesn't like mushrooms, Tim."

Tim screwed his nose up slightly. "I don't much, either," he said truthfully.

Aydie made a noise of resounding disgust, and set the pot down on the table. After a few minutes she suggested they take their cake and coffee, and go sit in the lounge. "We might _lounge_ a bit," she said pointedly. "Like, _relax_?"

Nobody did though. They sat in the comfortable chairs, and talked about this and that, but eyes would stray to the clock, or the phone. Tim dug out his cell, but Tony shook his head. "He doesn't text," he reminded him. "You know that."

"Mmm... d'you think he'll call?"

"He'll know we want him to... but..." Tony frowned. "Three hours to DC, the way Gibbs drives. Three hours back. Whatever Ziva wants to do in between." He glanced at his watch. "If he's not back here by midnight, I'll call him."

"You think he'll come back here?" Aydie asked curiously.

"Oh yeah," from both men.

Tim called Marchetti, and that most accommodating of bosses told him to email his report, and to be back in DC by ten in the morning unless they got a case and needed him earlier – "And I want to hear the whole story when you get here."

Tim did that right away, being a conscientious guy; they watched a couple of comic movies; when Aydie saw her husband was a bit less on edge, she stood up and stretched. "I'm turning in, DiNo." He raised an eyebrow, but she smiled easily. "This is between you guys," she said. "You don't need me. I'm going to try to be asleep by the time Gibbs arrives, or I'll be wanting to stick my nose in. There's stew and dumplings in a pot for the microwave – feed the man. Call me if you _do_ need me." Her glance took in Tim as well, taking it for granted that he was staying. "Futon in the office, Tim. G'night."

Tony stood up and kissed her, but took her at her word and didn't argue.

There was silence for a while. Both men with tumbling thoughts but no clear idea how to voice them. But the atmosphere between them was easy, so it was probably best to go with that, rather than say something the wrong way. Tony asked for an update on the orange folder case – the financial ramifications were far-reaching and tangled. During a pause in the long narrative, Tony said thoughtfully, "I'll put a fresh pot of coffee on." As he came back into the living room, saying "There," they heard the staccato roar that could only be Gibbs' car approaching.

Tim tried not to gawp at Tony. "How did you –"

"Well, when you've got it... er, I didn't. I was wrong – it's twenty after midnight."

By the time Gibbs'polite rap on the door was heard, there was a mug of coffee on the table, and the stew was chugging round happily on its little glass carousel. Everything totally normal and ordinary, in a situation that none of the three men, the three former team-mates, would ever have described as normal.

Gibbs followed Tony and the smell of coffee out into the kitchen, and sat heavily down at the table. Tim joined them quietly. The Marine took a long draught of his coffee, and the ping of the microwave went unheeded in the silence that followed.

"I took her to the Israeli Embassy," he said finally. "They'll see her resignation from the CIA is hand delivered, and give her an escort to her apartment tomorrow, just in case, although I don't expect trouble. She'll take what she needs, and they'll get her safely on a plane. She's going to stay with Aunt Nettie for a while. Settle herself, she said."

"Did she say anything else?" Tony asked.

"She said 'Goodbye'," Gibbs said, wryly. He sighed. "I asked her if she'd keep her apartment; she said no; the Embassy said they'd take care of all that. Kinda glad she didn't ask me to."

"She may not come back to DC then," Tim said. "She didn't say anything about that?"

"No, other than that she'd be all right... not to worry about her."

"But you're going to anyway." This time, Tim's remark was a statement, not a question.

Gibbs shrugged. "Hard not to. She was with us a while... won't be able to be there for her."

At that moment the microwave chose to ping irritably, as it was being ignored. Tony was relieved at the chance to get up, and hoped he hadn't done it too abruptly, to see to the meal. His face twisted involuntarily as he heard 'you'll do' in his mind, and was jerked back to a time when Gibbs had comprehensively not been there for him –and all the other times since. He forced himself to get a grip; there was no point in being jealous of the fact that Gibbs felt protective about the women in his life, and no point at all in rehashing the past –

Gibbs of course had seen the tightened jaw-line, and was at his elbow. The Marine didn't speak, just looked at him questioningly. And if Tony knew anything at all about reading Gibbs, there was an edge of anxiety too.

"Nothing," the Italian said levelly, as he carried his former boss's plate to the table. Reheating doesn't do much for a meal, but it still smelled marvellous.

"You're thinking I could have done the same for you."

"Well, OK... not nothing. " He sat down, and spread his hands out on the dark wood. Don't hedge. Don't whine. Just tell it like it is.

"Ack... I was wishing just this afternoon that you could relax, stop being on the defensive, and accept that the past's behind us. Enough already with the guilt, move on. Now I'm doing the same thing. Thinking about what's done, with all the mistakes, and resentments, and trying to evade instead of telling the truth. We're rebuilding, not tearing down. If I want you to do that, I've got to do it myself. So I don't have to get snarky that you still want to look out for Ziva."

Of all things, Gibbs smiled. "Move on. Rebuild." He waved his fork at Tim before using it to spear a chunk of dumpling. "You two are doing it."

Tim had been wisely silent, but now his smile was almost shy as he said, "It feels good, Gibbs."

The Marine chewed thoughtfully, swallowed and said, "That's good."

Tony leaned back in his chair. "Sorted, then."

"Sorted," the other two agreed.

 **AN: Rewritten this last conversation at least three times. Losing the will to live...**


End file.
